


grinning mad, light blue and golden

by spark_s



Category: SKAM (Spain)
Genre: Cuddling, Domesticity, F/F, Fluff, and collarbones, i wanted a fic so i wrote one, lots of things about light, morning fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24993778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spark_s/pseuds/spark_s
Summary: Joana gives Cris a necklace.--"She could get Cris a necklace like those earrings: a gold ring, something she could hold to her heart and think of Joana. She could fiddle with it when stressed, or when ecstatically happy she’s embarrassed about it. Joana could play with it, roll it between her fingers. She could see it now: Cris, laid out on her bed, her hands in Joana’s hair and the light hitting just right to reflect off the pendant."
Relationships: Joana Bianchi Acosta/Cristina "Cris" Soto Peña
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	grinning mad, light blue and golden

**Author's Note:**

> title from golden by hippo campus

The first thing Joana notices when she wakes up is how warm everything is. She feels held by early morning sunlight, its warmth spreading across head, her neck, pooling thickly on her chest. She takes a deep breath, let's it expand through her whole body, stretching her arms as far as they can go, careful not to dislodge the calming weight on her ribs. She keeps her eyes closed, not willing to reckon with the potential of this being a dream yet.

"Good morning." She feels it more than she hears it, right above her lungs. She doesn't open her eyes, not yet, choosing instead to stroke her fingers through the soft hair under her throat.

"Is it morning already?"

Joana feels Cris nod her head, nuzzling into the space where Joana's ribs meet the concave of her stomach.

She hums. "I guess I should get up then."

Cris only wraps her arms tighter around Joana's torso. Joana keeps her laugh in her chest, knows Cris can feel it under her ear, and thinks _this, maybe this is what I can do for the rest of my life._

Finally, finally she opens her eyes, just a bit, just enough to look down at the miracle in her arms. Cris' hair ripples like light down her ribcage, flowing down on the mattress. The early morning sunlight shining through the window catches on some strands, illuminating them like gold.

Joana wonders if Cris would like something gold - a necklace, maybe. Something she could wear all the time with a pendant that would settle right below her collarbone. It would rise with every breath, and people would notice and where she got it, and she'd say, "my girlfriend got it for me, isn't it lovely?" 

_There's an idea._

She lets the image calm her, gently drag her down into the depths of sleep again. Relaxes back into the warmth of the morning and resolves not to let go of Cris until she absolutely has to. 

Her golden girl, draped in gold. 

\--

She’s leaning on the counter, watching Cris sip her coffee. She holds the mug with her whole hands, wraps every one of her fingers around the warm ceramic and keeps it close to her chest. She has a foot up on the seat, supporting her elbow, while the other plays with the cushion on the opposite chair. She’s staring at Joana, her blue eyes hazy with sleep but wide open. They look like the ocean when it’s calm, when the only movement is the glimmer of sunlight on softly breaking waves. Cris’ eyes are brighter in the mornings. She looks at Joana like she’s all she will ever need to look at.

Joana watches Cris watching her and thinks she’ll never feel love like this again.

She holds Cris’ gaze, smiles, and nods her heads before turning around. She grabs a pan, turns the stove on, watches as the butter melts, and muses on whether Cris’ hair is more like the colour butter or wheat.

She cracks two eggs and listens as the soft hiss of the yolks hitting the pan disturbs the gentle peace of the once-silent kitchen. She likes it this, she thinks: engulfed in a quiet that doesn’t worry at her skin like an itch, a kind of quiet that soothes the knots in her spine and calmly suggests that she relax her shoulders.

As she flips the eggs, she decides Cris’ hair is too many colours to liken to just one food, that she’d need to find and catalogue every white and yellow thing in the whole world to properly compare it. But, if she had to choose, it would be the colour of sunlight reflecting off her mother’s gold earrings, the ones she fiddles with when her mother holds her. Ever since she was little, she would rub her index finger, back and forth, along the hoops. She found comfort in how smooth the metal was, how easy it was to run her finger up and down, how sometimes the light caught them _just right_ and she could marvel at the most beautiful colour in the world.

She could get Cris a necklace like those earrings: a gold ring, something she could hold to her heart and think of Joana. She could fiddle with it when stressed, or when ecstatically happy she’s embarrassed about it. _Joana_ could play with it, roll it between her fingers. She could see it now: Cris, laid out on her bed, her hands in Joana’s hair and the light hitting _just right_ to reflect off the pendant. She would be bathed in gold, sunlight kissing her collarbone, her breasts, her ribs. Joana could trace the shadows with her tongue and –

“Are the eggs burning?”

“Oh, shit!”

She grabs for the pan, shakes the eggs out on to a plate, turns off the gas. Cris’ laughter is echoing around the kitchen; Joana can’t find it in her to feel bad about ruining breakfast. She pokes the egg with a fork, wondering if they’re still salvageable, then feels arms wrapping around her middle and a chin on her shoulder. She leans into the hold, lets her head tilt back onto Cris’ shoulder, and wonders if Cris can feel her breathe out her loneliness.

“We could always just go get breakfast at that place down the street,” Cris whispers into her neck. She can feel her lips brushing against her pulse, wishes more than anything Cris would just kiss it, thinks she would probably beg for it. Instead, she runs her fingers along Cris’ hands on her abdomen and nods her head.

_I should start looking at necklaces._

\--

“I want to get Cris a necklace.”

Amira arches an eyebrow and tilts her head. Joana tries to focus on her breathing.

“What kind of necklace?” Amira asks.

Joana shrugs, puts her hands in her pockets, and looks down at her shoelaces. “Something gold, I think.” _Why does this feel like I’m asking for her hand in marriage?_

She risks a glance back up at Amira and sees her grinning back.

“Something nice, yeah?”

Joana nods.

“Something she could wear all the time, you know?”

Amira only smiles more.

“Do you want me to help you pick something out?”

Joana’s grateful she didn’t make her admit it aloud.

“You’ve known her forever; you probably have a better idea of what her taste in jewellery is.”

Amira hums, rolls it over in her head a bit. Then, she loops her arm in Joana’s and begins walking.

\--

“But what if she hates it?”

“She won’t hate it.”

“What if she never wears it?”

“Obviously, she’ll wear it!”

“What if she only ever wears it around me, so that I can’t tell she actually hates it?”

Amira stops and turns to face Joana. She grabs Joana’s biceps and grips – _hard._

“Joana, she would wear a cowboy hat if you gave her one. She will wear the necklace even if it is the ugliest necklace in the whole world because it will be from you. She will probably never take it off. She loves you and likes being reminded that you love her too.”

Joana holds Amira’s look. She looks determined, that she would slap her words into Joana if she needs to.

Joana nods, and she lets go.

“Plus, if she really does hate it, she can always just wear it under her clothes,” Amira retorts with a smirk. Joana only hits her arm and laughs.

\--

They’re lying in bed, facing each other, and Joana can’t take her eyes off Cris’ eyelashes. She took off her makeup before they climbed into bed, wiped her face so hard the blood rose to her cheeks and Joana couldn’t help herself from pinching them. Cris had swatted her away, but laughed as she’d done it, then grabbed Joana’s waist and swung her around until Joana got one arm around her back and another under her knees and carried Cris to her bedroom.

Cris had managed to get her mascara off, it seems, because Joana can memorize her eyelashes in all their glory.

They’re blonde, obviously, but some of them have flecks of brown at the ends. Joana catches glimpses of them, contrasted against the stunning blue of Cris’ irises as Cris looks down at their joined hands. She’s rubbing Joana’s knuckles, one by one, like she’s memorizing the exact placement of her veins so that she could recognize her hands by touch alone.

Joana loves her so much she can hardly breathe.

“I got you a gift,” she blurts out.

Cris looks up through her eyelashes. Joana swears she could count them. “You did? What for?”

Joana shrugs, then leans back to grab her bag on the floor. She pulls out the box and hopes to God that Cris doesn’t notice how much her hand is shaking.

She watches as Cris takes the box and carefully unties the blue ribbon. She watches as she lifts the lid and puts her hand to her mouth, as Cris’ eyes widen and look back up at Joana.

“It’s _beautiful._ Where did you find it?”

Joana lets go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Amira helped.”

Cris melts at that, relaxes her eyes and smiles in that way she does when she thinks Joana’s done the cutest thing ever. “Can you put it on me?” Cris carefully takes out the necklace; Joana watches as she holds it in her palm and circles her thumb around the pendant. They had opted for two intertwined rings, bound at two ends and resting on top of one another. Joana fiddled with it in the shop, rolling the rings around each other and thinking about how they always meet through every rotation.

She takes the necklace and tries to calm her heartbeat as Cris turns around and holds her hair up. Joana holds the necklace on the hollow of Cris’ collarbone and smirks at the way Cris’ breath hitches as she drags her fingers along her neck.

The second she clasps it, Cris spins back around and presses her into the bed, kissing her like Joana is water and she hasn’t had a drink in days. Joana lifts her hands to Cris’ ribcage, strokes her hands across the divots and tries to memorize every sound Cris makes, the way her hands feel in her hair, the way their lips ebb to and fro like a dance.

When Cris pulls back and rests her forehead against Joana’s, Joana feels the necklace under her chin. She lifts her hand, tucks a strand of golden hair behind Cris’ ear, and thinks that, if this is a dream, she never wants to wake up.


End file.
